


You Belong To Me

by allflavoursofkink (Iolre)



Series: Johnlock Flavours [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, John is displeased, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot, Sherlock likes it, Smut, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/allflavoursofkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That crossed a line, Sherlock,” he muttered fiercely, slowly, tortuously starting to slide the finger in and out. Sherlock squirmed underneath him, his cock hard against his belly, trying to force John’s finger into his body faster. He was starting to come undone at the seams. Lose control. It was John’s favourite part of fucking him. Taking him apart, bit by bit. Leaving nothing but pure need behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Belong To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt: first good luck. second i'd like top!john with bottom!sherlock combined with sherlock going undercover as a prostitute and john going crazy with jealousy and showing sherlock and maybe the other men who he belongs to. after all only john can fuck him that good.

John slid a finger into the slick heat of Sherlock’s arse, ignoring the sharp inhale from the man underneath him. Sherlock was watching him intently, pupils dilated, hair in a disarray from their earlier round. He had a well-fucked look about him that John thought suited him. But only when John was the one who caused it.

“That crossed a line, Sherlock,” he muttered fiercely, slowly, tortuously starting to slide the finger in and out. Sherlock squirmed underneath him, his cock hard against his belly, trying to force John’s finger into his body faster. He was starting to come undone at the seams. Lose control. It was John’s favourite part of fucking him. Taking him apart, bit by bit. Leaving nothing but pure need behind. “Stop. Or I’ll tie you up and leave you like this.” The consulting detective leaned his head back against the bed and stopped moving, his mouth twisting into a petulant scowl.

It wasn’t long before John added a second finger. He watched his partner, studious, looking for the way his lips parted, the way he bit his lower lip when he tried not to moan. The way his cock was dripping a small puddle of precome onto his belly. When he tried to hide just how much he was enjoying everything John was doing. John curved his fingers just slightly. Sherlock bit his lip and let out a little breathy noise, his hips jolting. John hid a smile. It wouldn’t do to have this over too fast. Sherlock hadn’t learned his lesson.

“Why, exactly, did you go undercover as a prostitute?” John asked sternly, pulling his fingers all the way out and ignoring Sherlock’s muted groan of frustration.

“For a case, John, do keep up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Right.” John slid off the bed, standing to allow Sherlock room to move off of his back. “Hands and knees.”

Sherlock eyed him speculatively for a moment, and then did as asked, presenting his glorious, pale arse for John’s inspection. John let him just kneel on the bed for a minute, thin hips swaying as he waited impatiently. “I needed to gather information from a very important client that frequented that escort service,” Sherlock said finally, his voice lacking its normal derogatory quality that made John feel stupid at crime scenes. “Posing as his escort was the only way to get what I needed.”

A dark surge of jealousy caught John off guard at the thought of Sherlock escorting anyone else, at the thought of Sherlock touching someone else, or letting them touch him. Without realizing it John found himself crawling back onto the bed and kneeling behind the taller man. “Grab the headboard,” he ordered. Sherlock was a smart man, he figured out what was coming, and he shifted slightly, spreading his knees and leaning forward to grab the headboard. John slid a hand slowly up his back, the callouses of his palm dragging pleasurably against the sharp vertebrae of Sherlock’s spine. He was able to see the faint purple splotches peppering where Sherlock’s neck joined his shoulders when the consulting detective leaned his head back to shoot John an impatient glance. They were from the earlier round, where John had sucked marks into every inch of Sherlock’s pale skin that he could reach. Some were so high up that even Sherlock’s scarf wouldn’t cover them if they went out. The whole world would know that Sherlock was his.

“You’re mine, Sherlock,” John growled, roughly pushing Sherlock’s head down as he leaned forward. He slid two fingers into Sherlock’s body, relishing the way the heat clenched around them. John nipped at Sherlock’s shoulders and upper back, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to draw the noises from his partner that he loved so much. Soft little whimpers, increasing in volume and intensity, breathy moans - John soaked them up as he added a third finger and pumped his hand in and out of Sherlock’s welcoming body. “You belong to me. No one else.”

“Yours,” Sherlock breathed, shifting restlessly, trying to push his body back against John’s intruding fingers. He keened when John curled his fingers to hit his prostate, and John inhaled sharply, pressing his other hand to his cock, squeezing the base to calm himself down. John pulled back, slipping his fingers out completely, leaving Sherlock trembling from want. He smacked Sherlock’s arse, delighting in the briefly red hand mark. “Yours.” Sherlock shuddered, his shoulders quaking, and John inhaled sharply, need coursing through his veins. He had mostly ignored his own want to give Sherlock the punishment he needed, but he couldn’t hold back any longer.

Ignoring Sherlock’s muffled complaint as he stepped off the bed, John pulled a condom out of the bedside draw and quickly rolled it on. There was enough lube from getting Sherlock ready that John prepped himself quickly. “You are not allowed to come until I say you may,” John ordered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, the slight, impatient movement of his hips more of an answer than any words could be. John smacked his arse, more for the noise than for the sting. “Yes, sir.” Sherlock stilled himself, his head hanging down.

John took himself in hand and positioned himself to sink into Sherlock’s body. He pushed forward, just a bit, the blunt head of his cock slipping past the initial resistance. Sherlock’s arse was warm and tight, and John pressed forward slowly, until he was seated all the way inside, his balls pressed against the curve of Sherlock’s arse. “No one can fuck you like I can,” John said fiercely. “No one else can touch you, you hear me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said immediately. “Yes, yours. Now move. Please, John, fuck me.” He was begging, a desperate, probably calculated note to his voice that set John off anyway, jealousy coiling in the pit of his gut. Sherlock was his, no matter what the berk did, and John was going to fuck away the remnants of anyone else, even if they had done nothing more than look at Sherlock the wrong way.

John pulled out almost all the way, and then slammed back in, encasing himself in the slick heat of Sherlock’s body. He clutched Sherlock’s hips hard enough to leave hand-shaped bruises and took what he wanted, making low, guttural noises as he fucked Sherlock into the bed. The bed bounced and complained, and both men ignored it, Sherlock clinging to the headboard and letting out a series of loud, continuous moans.

The moans started as words - John caught his name, ‘oh god’, ‘fuck’, ‘yes’, and a handful of other vaguely intelligible words in the mixture, before he reached down and stroked Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock keened, nearly sobbed, his hips trying to thrust forward to get more of John’s hand, backward to get more of John’s cock, while at the same time Sherlock tried to not let go of the headboard or come, because John had told him not to.

“Please, please, oh god, let me, ohhh, god, come,” Sherlock managed, his breathing ragged, his single sentence interrupted by John’s fierce thrusts. John fucked him harder, possessing, taking, having. He felt the heat gather low in his belly, felt his balls draw up. Sherlock’s cock was slick in his hands, his body pulsing and clenching around John’s cock, trying to coax him into an orgasm, to give him release. His nerves were on fire, every thrust into Sherlock sending him closer and closer to the brink of a cliff he wasn’t sure he wanted to go over.

“Yes, Sherlock,” John breathed, feeling his pleasure coalesce in his body, feeling his balls draw up. “Come for me.” He snapped his hips harder, stroked Sherlock’s cock faster, and felt the consulting detective moan loudly, press back, forward, and then clench around John’s cock as he came, pushing John over the cliff as his pleasure crescendoed and the world went white for a few, glorious moments.

He felt Sherlock collapse to the bed underneath him, and he pulled out and fell to his side, narrowly avoiding his partner. They lay on the bed together, breathing ragged, both worn out from their encounter. After a few moments John reached over to grab a washcloth, cleaning himself off before he tied off the condom and threw it into the garbage. Gently he urged Sherlock to turn onto his side for a moment so John could wipe him off. Once John was done, Sherlock flopped back onto his stomach, a pillow clutched in his long arms.

“The sheets are rubbish,” Sherlock muttered, his face mashed into a pillow. John reached over and smoothed away some damp curls from his forehead. Both men were covered in a sheen of sweat.

“Your bed has clean sheets,” John pointed out. “And we could use a shower.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, but made no point to move. “I solved the murder,” he said after a few moments. “It was one of his other clients.”

John stilled, and laid on his side, one hand propping up his head. “Yes, I know,” he said simply.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Sherlock spoke to the pillow, not to John, but he understood.

Leaning down, John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s curly head. “Don’t do it again. Now, let’s go shower and stuff these sheets in the wash before Mrs. Hudson finds them and tuts again.” John shifted to sit up on the edge of the bed, offering a hand to his partner.

Sherlock snorted at the thought and took John’s hand, allowing himself to be lead out of the room.


End file.
